Jim Morrison’s Grave – A Metamorphosis

Posted on Updated on

Wish I Were Here

The first time I went to Paris, in late August of 1988, I was nineteen years old. I had never expected that I would travel so far. None of it felt real. I visited the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and the Louvre. Then I visited the place I most wanted to see: Jim Morrison’s grave in Père LaChaise cemetery. His music and poetry had helped me through my turbulent high school years. His image had hung on my bedroom wall. I had worn a button with his photo on my black leather jacket. On the vacant building across from my high school, I had spray painted the same words that I had doodled all over my school notebooks: Jim Morrison Lives. I had self-medicated with whatever I could find (which, thankfully, wasn’t much in those days) and had written stream of consciousness poetry while listening to An American Prayer

View original post 492 more words

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s